What a Happy Family

by Saumya Dave

  The teal curtain that’s supposed to separate her bed from the person’s next to her rustles and a second later gets pushed aside. It makes a jingling sound that reminds Natasha of her shower curtain at home.

  Home. She needs to go home.

  “Um, are you okay?” Dr. Goldstein, the psychiatry intern who saw her when she got here, asks as he steps closer. “Your, uh, sister is on the way.”

  Jeez. This guy’s anxiety is so palpable that Natasha has to stop herself from comforting him.

  “My sister? What about my brother-in-law? I thought I gave you Zack’s number.”

  “I think he, uh, told Dr. Joshi. I mean, er, your sister,” Dr. Goldstein stammers.

  “Great. Just great.” Natasha kicks the thin white blanket off her.

  “Yep. So just sit tight, okay?”

  “But I’m fine now,” Natasha says as she looks at Dr. Goldstein. She keeps her head held high (she once read that conveys confidence and figures shrinks must always read body language). “I know I made a mistake and I think I just need a referral for a therapist. Someone I can talk to.”

  “Do you, er, want to tell me what’s . . . what’s wrong?” Dr. I’m- Anxious-as-Fuck asks.

  “You know what? I think I’m good. Thanks.” She flashes the best smile she can muster.

  He nods and looks relieved that she doesn’t want to confide in him. Damn it, why is this guy a psychiatrist?

  “Can I leave after my sister gets here?” Natasha stares at her chipped and chewed-down nails. “You know her. She’ll tell you I don’t need to be here.”

  “Well, uh, I don’t know. You were, uh, quite upset. We usually let people go if it’s just a, uh, panic attack or something, but you, you know, swallowed pills.”

  “But I threw them up . . .” Natasha mutters as her face becomes warm with humiliation.

  Someone in a bed down the hall asks a nurse for more pain meds. Two policemen bring in a guy in handcuffs. She can’t handle being here for another minute.

  Dr. Goldstein nods. “I hear you, but, uh, I’ll have to discuss this with my senior resident and get back to you. You have to wait here until then.”

  He walks away before Natasha has a chance to protest.

  She should make a run for it. The exit is all the way on the other side, but maybe if she sprints . . .

  Yes, Natasha, that’ll definitely show everyone that you’ve got your shit together.

  The senior resident comes in after what feels like hours.

  “Natasha. I’m Dr. Chan.” She extends her hand and her gold-studded wedding band winks in the fluorescent light. A Cartier Love bracelet dangles from her wrist. Natasha only recognizes it because Zack’s sent a link of it to her before as a potential gift for Suhani.

  Zack and Suhani. Where the hell are they? Didn’t the intern say they were on their way awhile ago?

  “Nice to meet you,” Natasha says. “I don’t know if Dr. Goldstein told you but I’m all better now and really ready to leave.”

  Dr. Chan has a badge clipped to one of her belt loops. Underneath where it reads konny chan in bold blue letters, there’s a picture where her eyes are brighter, her hair shinier. It had to be taken years ago, maybe even before she was bogged down by the drudgery of residency, because now her skin has the dullness of being indoors and awake for too many years. Still, she’s elegant in a black turtleneck and tiny pearl studs.

  “I’m happy to hear that you’re feeling better now.” Dr. Chan smiles and Natasha can tell she means it. She comes off as kind and no-nonsense. One of those women who’s comfortable in her skin. Natasha bets she always wears minimal makeup—even on special occasions—and enjoys fine wine and classical music.

  Natasha cringes as Dr. Chan does a quick once-over of her scuffed Keds, faded T-shirt, and ripped jeans. Surely the doctor isn’t judging her outfit. She hears Mom’s voice: See? It’s always important to look presentable.

  And for once, Natasha wishes she did look more put together. It would at least motivate Dr. Chan to discharge her as soon as possible. She glances at the clock above Dr. Chan’s head. Based on her knowledge of the emergency room from Dad, Suhani, and the one time she came here with Ifeoma when she had appendicitis, Natasha estimates that she can get out of here in an hour if she plays it cool. Suhani will root for her once she gets here, too.

  “Thanks,” Natasha says. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Or even really thought about hurting myself. I was just freaking out.”

  “Well, it sounds like things were really bad. Can you tell me what’s been going on?”

  “Just a lot of quarter-life-crisis stuff,” Natasha mumbles. “Nothing that’s really that bad.”

  “Has anything changed recently?” Dr. Chan props her hand under her chin. “Or been more stressful?”

  A slew of doctors and nurses run to the other end of the ER. A deep, overhead voice yells, “CODE BLUE IN ED BED FOUR,” on the intercom. Dr. Chan’s not fazed at all by the chaos, while Natasha just wants to scream at the top of her lungs. She could really use a weed brownie right now.

  “Yeah. A lot has changed,” Natasha says. “I broke up with my boyfriend—my best friend since I was a baby—right after he proposed. And I thought we could get back together. I mean, just because I don’t want to get married doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with him. But he’s already moved on with some chick who’s better for him. Or at least, better than me, that’s for sure.”

  Natasha pictures Karan’s face when he sat across from her at Starbucks. He had some stubble on his chin and she stopped herself from rubbing it. It’s jarring that a best friend can turn into a stranger in a matter of months.

  “Oh, and before that, I was fired from my job, but I was okay with that at first because I’ve always wanted to be a comedian,” Natasha says. “But it turns out I kind of suck at talking to audiences, unless I’m totally wasted. I totally freeze, even when I think the stuff I wrote is pretty good. So my only real job right now with any kind of promise is being a barista. And I hate it. I keep thinking about how much comedy I could be writing if I wasn’t busy smiling while people bitched at me for not frothing their milk enough.”

  Even though this is a really dumb place to start with telling the doctor what’s changed, letting it all out for the first time in months, maybe ever, feels surprisingly cathartic.

  “I’ve had all these role models in comedy,” Natasha continues. “It started with Mindy Kaling and then I started reading about Aparna Nancherla and Lilly Singh, and anyway, I thought I had all this stuff in common with them, being women of color and misunderstood sometimes and all that. But they’re really on another level, one I won’t ever get to. I guess I’m finally getting the realization that just because people think I’m funny and I can write good jokes doesn’t mean I have what it takes to really make it in the one thing I’ve dreamed about for my entire life, you know?”

  It should be more humiliating to ramble about all this to a woman who so clearly has her shit together. But to her surprise, Dr. Chan looks like she empathizes with what Natasha is going through.

  “That must be really difficult,” Dr. Chan says. “Do you have any support? Family? Friends?”

  “I do. . . .” Natasha says.

  “But?” Dr. Chan scribbles something Natasha can’t make out onto her spiral yellow notepad.

  “But they don’t get it. They’ve never really gotten me. Ever. Yeah, I’m the one who cracks them up, but honestly, most of the time, I’m the burden. It’s basically an accepted joke that I’m the black sheep of my family, and now my friends are moving on, living real adult lives.”

  Natasha pictures the girls depositing their paychecks and having a slot in their wallets for insurance cards and signing leases and drinking fancy, colorful cocktails on dates.

  “So you don’t feel as though you can really talk to any of them about
what’s going on?”

  “I really don’t want to bring my friends down with my shit. Sorry— stuff.” Natasha shakes her head. “And my family just won’t understand. My dad’s always known something’s wrong with me. He’s tried to be nice about it and said I have ‘trouble coping’ or ‘feel things more than most people,’ but that’s all code for ‘messed up.’ My mom just calls me dramatic. If they wanted to be honest, my parents would straight up admit they wish I was like my sister, who’s basically perfect. I’m sure you already know that by her work here. And my brother doesn’t ruffle any feathers, so that just leaves me as the one to freak out about. I’ve always known I was messed up. Always.”

  Saying all this makes Natasha wish she could just jump out of her skin and turn herself inside out. Self-loathing feels like wearing an itchy sweater she can never take off.

  “Have you ever tried telling your family how you feel?”

  “I used to try. I really did. But after a certain point, I didn’t want to be this constant problem for my parents after they’ve already struggled so much,” Natasha says as her eyes fill with tears. “They’ve sacrificed so much for me. They were really poor when they came to America and their families weren’t supportive of their marriage at all. And when they had a little financial stability, they moved to the neighborhood we’ve always lived in because of the good schools, even though it meant my dad commuted for an extra hour in traffic every day. They never even took vacations alone so we could all experience whatever they could. I can’t ever think about everything they’ve been through without feeling so shitty.”

  “Having just one of those things weighing on you would be so difficult,” Dr. Chan says. “But all of that together must be so overwhelming. I’m so sorry to hear that’s how it’s been for you. Have you ever wanted to hurt yourself before?”

  Natasha shakes her head. It’s better to lie. If they know she’s thought about it in the past, they’ll be more likely to keep her here. She knows this much from the way Dad and Suhani have discussed cases at the dinner table. And even if she has wanted to hurt herself, she’s never actually tried to before. She came close in college once, while she was high, but Anuj called her right then. She never told him what she was about to do.

  “Look, I know what I did was wrong. But I feel better now,” Natasha says. “I’m not even sad anymore. I just feel numb sometimes. And on some level, I know I’ll always feel this way. It’s like there’s always been this cloud or something hanging over me.”

  “Hm.” Dr. Chan scribbles something else down in big cursive loops. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I don’t want to live the same life everyone else does, especially everyone in my family. They want to go to school, work a stable job, get married. And for a really long time, I told everyone that’s what I wanted, too. I even told myself that. But I think I did that, and a lot of other things, to avoid really focusing on how I was pretending to just be normal, when I’m not.”

  When Natasha looks back, she did a lot to ignore her feelings. In elementary and middle school, she learned how to forge her parents’ signatures so she wouldn’t have to face the fact that she wasn’t trying. And then throughout college, the partying, smoking, drinking, and maybe even the making everyone laugh were all there to distract her from how she really felt, who she really was.

  “I see,” Dr. Chan says. “Natasha, when you called 911, you said that you didn’t see a point to anything anymore. Is that true?”

  How exactly is Natasha supposed to respond to a question like that? How is she supposed to tell the doctor that everyone else seems to get through life so easily, while everything’s a struggle for her? They can change their last names, careers, minds. They can float in and out of accomplishments, while at her best, all she does is remind people of an Indian female Ferris Bueller.

  Natasha shrugs. “Sure. I don’t really see the point of getting out of bed a lot these days but I’m just sort of stuck. And really, I feel so much better than before, so if I can just get the therapist refe—”

  “You have to understand that what you did was very serious. Yes, you threw up the Tylenol, so I’m hoping that your labs show no liver damage, but we can’t downplay the fact that you could have really hurt yourself. My guess is that you’ve been in a lot of pain for a while.” Dr. Chan furrows her brows. “It must be exhausting to keep pretending you’re okay.”

  Natasha’s heart starts pounding. Suddenly, the room is too warm. “Is my brother-in-law here yet? He’ll tell you that I’m fine to go home. So will my sister, Suhani Joshi. I’m sure you’ve worked with her before?”

  “I don’t know if your family is here yet,” Dr. Chan says. “And yes, I have worked with your sister, but we—the people who have seen you tonight—have to make our own assessment and do what’s best for you.”

  There’s a frantic voice on the other side of the curtain. “Natasha?”

  “That’s my sister!” Natasha jumps up. “She’s here!”

  The anger Natasha has been holding on to is replaced by an all-consuming longing. Over the past few weeks, every time Natasha has scrolled to Suhani’s name in her phone, the same jumble of questions stops her from calling:

  What if we talk and you make me feel even worse about myself?

  Are you annoyed with me?

  Why haven’t you called?

  Are you okay?

  Dr. Chan stands up and says, “I’ll give you both a minute.” Outside the curtain, Natasha hears the low rumble of Dr. Chan’s voice, followed by Suhani whispering, “Thank you so much.”

  “Oh my God,” Suhani says as she slowly pushes the curtain aside. “We’ve been waiting to see you for hours. They wanted to make sure you spoke to the intern and senior resident first. I’m so sorry. . . .”

  Hot tears trickle down Natasha’s face the second she registers Suhani’s petite frame. Suhani’s large, almond-shaped eyes are wide with a mixture of shock and sadness.

  “It’s okay, let it out.” In one swift gesture, Suhani grabs Natasha. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Natasha presses her face against Suhani’s T-shirt and feels a wave of relief as she inhales Suhani’s jasmine shampoo. It’s surreal seeing her here, in this place she comes to every day to make people—people like Natasha—feel better.

  Suhani’s eyes are wet when she pulls away from their hug. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Natasha takes Suhani’s hand and says, “I’m really sorry for all the stuff I put about you in my comedy sketch. It was shitty of me to do that.”

  Suhani waves her hand. “Don’t even think about that. Let’s just focus on what we can do for you right now, okay?”

  “But I made you so mad.”

  “I’ve made you pretty mad, too. And maybe seeing everything riled me up because it was true,” Suhani says. “I know I can be judgmental. And bossy.”

  “It’s always been part of your charm. Your aspirational image,” Natasha says in a British accent. They both laugh. It’s nice to have a moment that feels somewhat normal. “But speaking of your image, what were you doing today? You look ready to climb the rope in middle school gym class.”

  “Oh!” Suhani’s eyes dart down like she’s only now noticing her large glasses, frizzy bun, teal-blue pants, and high school T-shirt. “I was just relaxing at home and found some old clothes.”

  “You were at home just because?”

  “Yeah.” Suhani shrugs.

  “Are you okay?” Natasha asks.

  “Of course!” Suhani’s voice has a forced reassurance to it.

  Natasha nods but inside feels a tiny kernel of worry.

  Suhani’s voice is soft as she says, “I’m glad you could turn to Zack when you were having a crisis.”

  “I, well, you know how he’s so calming in these situations . . .”

  “Yea
h, I get that.” Suhani nods as if she understands, but her pursed lips and downturned eyes give away that she’s hurt. Really hurt. And Natasha can’t blame her. She’s the psychiatrist and her older sister. How could she not be the one Natasha called?

  “Wait, where is Zack?” Natasha asks.

  “He’s in the waiting area. Mom, Dad, and Anuj are on the way,” Suhani says.

  “WHAT?!” Natasha pulls away from her. “I don’t want them here! He shouldn’t have told them!”

  “He didn’t. I did.”

  Natasha clenches her fists. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because we all love you,” Suhani says in a gentle voice. “And we’re here for you.”

  Natasha feels a rush of anger alongside relief. She always has so many contradictory emotions rising in her these days.

  “I’ll text Zack to keep them occupied, say they can’t be in the ER yet,” Suhani offers. “But they will want to see you. And I can’t blame them for that.”

  “Yeah, I can’t, either.” Natasha tries to ignore the heavy guilt that’s spreading throughout her body. She also feels shards of something else poking at her insides, something she can’t quite pinpoint.

  Despite what she just told Suhani, all she wants now is to be in the fetal position in her four-poster bed at home. She wants Mom to bring her a large mug of chai and Dad to sit at the foot of her bed, reassuring her the way he did when she got in trouble in high school. She wants to hear the hiss of the pressure cooker and the creak of wooden floorboards as her parents go to the living room and turn on a black-and-white Bollywood movie. She wants the smell of roasted mustard seeds and chilies to waft up to her room.

  She had a similar feeling when she got to her dorm room years ago. The entire summer before college, she couldn’t wait to get out of her parents’ house. But seconds after she unpacked her last box of Easy Mac, she wanted to go back. The dorm suddenly felt like a dungeon. She cried in bed and hours later called Mom and Dad to tell them she was having the time of her life.